


never thought that i could feel real again

by knowyourwayinthedark



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Coming In Pants, Coming Untouched, Dubious Consent Due To Identity Issues, M/M, Madeleine Era, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Wet Dream, touch starved, you know how i talk about how all my fic is idfic well Yeah
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-08
Packaged: 2017-12-25 23:20:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/958810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knowyourwayinthedark/pseuds/knowyourwayinthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inopportune attractions, unfortunate compulsions, and self-restraint - never easy - becomes exceedingly difficult.</p>
            </blockquote>





	never thought that i could feel real again

**Author's Note:**

> Ha ha, I tried to write an actual summary to make up for the fact that the title is taken from a Lonely Island song (should be p obvious which one)
> 
> originally a kinkmeme self fill [here](http://makinghugospin.livejournal.com/13488.html?thread=9822128#t9822128) because that's what my life is these days

His dream builds like a cresting wave – a ceaseless storm of images, lips and hands and bare hot skin; he cannot run and hide, not now, he cannot duck away with a smile and a franc from his nighttime urges, the demands of his sleeping mind.

The wave bursts. He jolts awake, already arching his back, his hips pumping of their own accord as he spills hot and liquid through his nightshirt, staining the sheets; unthinkingly, he clutches at himself, palms desperately at his cock though soaked cloth, shivers out the last pulses of his orgasm, feeling his cock twitch against his hand.

His breathing slows. His mind clears.

It is barely dawn, but that is no matter, he would rise in half an hour anyway. Madeleine rises, his spend-soaked nightshirt cooling and clammy against his skin.

He strips and cleans himself off mechanically. It is not often that he has these dreams – an understatement. He has not had one of these dreams since he was young in Faverolles; Toulon had burnt the capacity for this sort of surging ecstasy out of him, or so he had thought. It had been almost a relief. Another urge that he would not feel tempted to sate. He had not missed this.

Now he wonders why. The blind rut, the crashing pleasure; all of it had been – more intoxicating than he had expected, far better than he had remembered.

There had been a man in the dream. He cannot remember. The dream is fading fast, leaving behind only a heavy satiation to mark its passage; there had been the familiar lines of a body, but unclothed, and he – he cannot remember. It had only been a dream.

Madeleine splashes water on his face, dresses, hears the housekeeper begin to move about in the kitchen; only a dream, and the sun of the waking day will burn it away.

 

There comes a knock on his door late in the evening; it is expected, but still, he cannot hide the slight pang of fear low in his chest as he announces, “Come in.”

Javert enters.

It takes Madeleine a long moment to recognize what is different and the answer is – nothing. Javert is the same. His posture rigid, his fingers tight on his cane, the buckle of his stock neat and aligned perfectly on the midline of his throat.

He rolls his fingers on his cane, a slow drum, one at a time, realigning his grip, and Madeleine finds he cannot look away.

Those long fingers had – slipped inside him, in the dream; he remembers now, aware of how they had filled him, the tight burn, the stretch of his hole around each knuckle. Dimly, he is aware that his hands are pressed against the desk, the edge digging into his palms, as though he is about to push away from the desk and rise to his feet and – do something, something unadvisable; it is absurd, it had only been a dream, an unfortunate dream about the unlikeliest of participants –

Javert opens his mouth, clears his throat. Madeleine follows the imperceptible trace of Javert’s tongue over his lips. “The days’ events, monsieur,” he says, and bows.

His head had bobbed, taking Madeleine’s cock to the root, a delicious slide, a chaos of warm heat – how had the dream been so vivid, when all that had touched his prick in his sleep was the cool night air and well-washed linen? Why had his control suddenly lapsed, why had his attention settled on – _Javert_ , of all people? How had he managed to forget? Well, it has all returned, and in a most inopportune manner – Madeleine is achingly hard; he coughs and shifts a little closer to the desk, hunching slightly to disguise the bulge in his trousers.

“Go on, Inspector,” he says, forcing his voice into steadiness.

Javert talks and talks. Madeleine tries to focus. It is only that the dream is still too vivid. It means nothing. This man is honest and does not deserve this unwelcome attention. This man is a constant danger, a reminder, and he cannot risk himself like this. This man is – steady and relentless, would take Madeleine apart, would shatter him with the sureness of one implacable and without pity.

He would pay no heed to Madeleine’s cries. Pain would mean the same to him as pleasure. His cock would be hard and thick inside Madeleine, he would bring Madeleine to the edge with thrusts and strokes and only slow at the last moment, tantalize him with the barest of movements, leave him a shaking mess –

Madeleine desperately attempts to clear his thoughts. He thinks of the smell of salt. He thinks of labor without end, the taste of cold beans.

It works, somewhat, but by the end his heart is pounding and he nearly shakes. Javert says something that sounds like a conclusion, and he smiles up blandly, hoping Javert will not ask for anything that would require him to reveal he has not heard a word for the last five minutes.

“Monsieur, are you well?”

“Yes.” His cock jumps a little, dragging against the fabric of his trousers. He twitches. “Yes. That will be all.”

The words come out brusquer than he would like; Javert frowns slightly, brow furrowing. But he does not leave immediately. It is torture. Every moment that Madeleine spends in Javert’s presence is agony; the dream had awakened his body to pleasure, leaving him trembling on the edge for release once again. He cannot stop the endless churn of his thoughts. It is like he dreams again in waking life.

“Monsieur,” Javert says again. He seems reluctant to leave. Does he scrutinize Madeleine now with the usual suspicion of one who thinks he recognizes the face of a past convict? Or is this, now, a growing awareness of the signs of Madeleine’s arousal; can he perceive the hardness hidden behind the desk, under layers of cloth, leaking and sensitive, can he tell from Madeleine’s fixed gaze and hunched shoulders the thoughts that paint themselves over him?

“It is getting late, Javert,” Madeleine says, hands curling into slow fists before him on the desk, “undoubtedly you have other – duties – I will see you tomorrow.”

Javert hesitates. Madeleine wants to scream.

Finally, _finally,_ “Monsieur,” and Javert bows and turns away. The moment his footsteps fade, Madeleine exhales shakily and finally drops a hand to bring himself some relief – but it is almost too late, his cock jerks in the constraints of his clothing, and spend has already soaked the cloth he grasps with a shaky hand, feeling the last hot spurts against his palm.

 

This strange – fixation – that he has developed towards Javert – does not wholly recede. It remains, lapping like the small waves blown by breezes around the jetties, a faint, relentless ebb and flow of desire that makes it even more difficult to ignore.

It is impossible, too, to ignore Javert himself, to avoid conversation as he would wish to. They speak and Madeleine sweats. It is like balancing on a high wire.

Several weeks of this produces a puzzling numbness; he becomes used to arranging his features into an expression of civil half-interest, keeping at bay the urges to – caress, to hold, to reach out and bring his fingers to Javert’s lips. There is no sense to this. The echoes of Toulon ought to repel him, not stir him; he is not a moth, to be drawn to fire although it will consume him.

It is a constant, exhausting effort, to maintain the façade of the polite and civil Mayor, and at the same time keep his growing desires behind bars; he wonders, dully, which mask might slip first. So it is almost a relief when Javert kisses him, to know that at least one guise has been lifted away, made immaterial. It is nothing like his dreams, though, which is the first thing to startle him; Javert is pushy and insistent and nearly jumps out of his skin when Madeleine clutches blindly at his shoulders; Javert kisses with his lips curled as if in distaste, and moves his tongue about as though it is a chore.

A forceful shove of his weight against Madeleine’s body and they are pressed against the wall of his office; Madeleine moans as Javert’s mouth pulls away from his and finds his neck, sucking, biting, challenging and provoking. Fear still tempers Madeleine’s arousal, but yet it builds, and it is hard to focus when Javert hisses into his ear, “Monsieur – do you not wish to punish me?”

He shakes his head in a tiny motion. “Javert, I – I am not –”

Javert’s eyes rake his face, searching; they do not seem to find what they look for in Madeleine’s helpless expression. His fingers press into Madeleine’s sides, like he is trying to spur some beast into doing a trick that by rights it ought to have been trained to do; the touch is painful, and the next kiss, when it comes, is flat and almost rude. But it has brought Madeleine’s desire to a storm-swell; his heart pounds in his throat, a pulse echoed by the throb of blood sudden and hot in his stiffening prick. He groans against Javert’s mouth, the heat of Javert’s body – the feel of it – every point of contact like rain on a dry riverbed, like rain in the mouth of one who has been starved and parched for it.

Javert’s tongue is hot in his mouth, his lips are chapped, and rasping stubble scrapes harsh at Madeleine’s chin as he pushes forward, knocking Madeleine’s head against the wall. When he brings his hips forward, Madeleine moans again, knees suddenly buckling; another shove of Javert’s body, a hand brought up to caress roughly at Madeleine’s cheek and neck, another crushing kiss, and –

He clings to Javert’s uniform, legs shaking, fingers digging into the stiff fabric, gasping as white ecstasy shoots through him like a thunderclap.

Panting, he looks up. And Javert is stunned. He has never seen such a shocked expression on the solemn Inspector’s face before; his features, better suited to reserve and coolness, are warped almost comically, mouth open, eyes wide.

Javert looks stunned, and suddenly uncertain; his fingers brush the front of Madeleine’s trousers, at the growing wet stain, for a split second, then jerk back. “You,” he says. “You did not.” Bewilderment colors his voice with what could almost be apology. “So you have never – not before –”

Had Javert thought – that he had – Madeleine thinks, suddenly, of Toulon, the noises in the night, the marks on men’s necks and bruised hips in the morning, a different sort of limp not forced by the drag of the chain. The realization is hardly bitter at all. Javert had expected a criminal’s reaction, he sees now, the skill of a strong or cunning man in Toulon, one who had undoubtedly been at the top of the pecking order; such a man would try to turn the tables, gain the upper hand; such a man would not lose control so quickly with his cock entirely untouched.

But now, it seems, one illusion yet remains intact, and Madeleine remains Madeleine in Javert’s eyes, evidenced by the hurried bow of the Inspector’s head, the way he fumbles in his pocket for a handkerchief first to offer then to quickly take back and dab at Madeleine’s trousers himself. Order almost restores by itself around Javert, as though the world is afraid he will look and see something or someone out of place, and he even kneels to better reach and wipe Madeleine clean.

Satiation has blunted his yearning for touch, briefly, but the warmth of Javert’s fingers through the fine fabric of his trousers still makes him shiver. Javert pauses. “Monsieur?” he inquires, glancing up from where he kneels – his voice almost gentle, apprehensive.

Guilt shivers low in Madeleine’s gut. He should not. It will ruin the both of them.

He strokes Javert’s jaw, instead. It is only touch. Perhaps he is allowed that, at the least.


End file.
